Into the Fire(14)

Embarrassing.

He tried to yank his foot free. Aside from an ache that bloomed in his thigh, nothing happened.

With a groan, he hunched forward awkwardly, untied his laces, and ripped his foot out.

Standing, he tried to work the boot loose. It spun in a full rotation but would not pull off.

Stupid protective steel shanks.

Stupid floating bed.

Plus, the sheets were wrinkled all to hell.

In order to reclaim his boot, he’d require an Ampco non-sparking, non-magnetic, aluminum-bronze crowbar. The flat rectangular truck vaults in the bed of his pickup held weaponry, body armor, climbing equipment—a full array of good-to-go load-out gear equipping him for a variety of contingencies. Like, say, a full-frontal assault on a wayward boot.

He walked down the hall, grabbed his keys, and stomped to the elevator.

Of course the car stopped on the twelfth floor.

And of course, even before the doors parted, it was her voice coming through: “—because bubble gum isn’t a breakfast food, Peter.”

Peter looked up, spotted Evan, and transformed into a blur of flying nine-year-old. “Evan Smoak!”

He bulldozed into Evan’s side, his Batman lunch box swinging dangerously close to Evan’s groin. Evan patted his back in an awkward hug of sorts, using the diversion to avoid Mia’s stare.

She was wearing her good-luck court-motion suit—midnight blue, subtle lapels. The California-in-a-pie-tin was balanced atop her briefcase, which she held horizontally like a server’s tray.

“Hello,” she said.

Evan said, “Hi.”

Sensing the tension, Peter released Evan and stood beside his mom.

He glanced over at Evan and then over at him again. “You’re missing a boot.”

Evan looked down. “Yup.”

“Where you going with one boot?”

“To get a crowbar.”

“Why?”

“To get my other boot.”

Peter said, “Oh.”

Evan looked at Mia. She looked at the wall.

“Adulthood is complicated,” he said.



* * *



Back in his bedroom, armed with a crowbar, Evan reapproached the boot. First he dug the forked end beneath the tread, then pried it up a few centimeters before it snapped back against the slab.

He wiped his brow, took a moment to regroup. Then he got after the boot again, hooking it and setting his full weight on the end of the bar. It was right on the verge. As he repositioned, he felt the drift of his left boot and had precisely enough time to say “Goddamn i—” before he hammered the floor once more, the crowbar clattering at his side, his left boot cemented in place beneath the lip of the slab next to its mate.

Lying flat, his leg raised as if in traction, he blew out a breath and let his head thunk against the concrete floor.

And then he heard it. A distinctive ring. His RoamZone.

He dug it out of his pocket. Staring at the ceiling, he lifted it to his face.

He said, “Do you need my help?”





9



Bedside Manner





Once Evan pried himself off the floor and free of the bed, the call followed the traditional course: Do you need my help?

A harried masculine voice, cracked with adrenaline: “Yes.”

“Where did you get this number?”

“Some guy who … who … Trevon something. I think he’s on the spectrum. He said … he said you could help me. What does that mean?”

“It means what it sounds like.”

In his socks Evan crossed to the window, the subdued morning light washing over his face. Across Wilshire Boulevard the buildings gleamed with the promise of a new day. He was relieved to have gotten the call, his last mission finally put into motion.

The man was talking. “I spent the night, I guess, working up my courage. Trying to figure out if this is real or some kind of hoax. I mean, an untraceable number? You gotta admit, it sounds—”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Not anymore. I slept in my truck last night. They’re after me, and—”

“Name.”

“What?”

“Your name.”

“Max Merriweather?”

“You’re not sure if that’s who you are?”

“No, I’m just a bit rattled. Um—”

“Two hours from now,” Evan said, drawing back from the window. “Tram stop at the base of Universal Studios.”

“Is that some kind of code?”

“It’s where we’ll meet.”

“Uh, okay. Is that it?”

“No.” Evan looked at his floating bed. Two boots rising from the edge. A scattering of wrinkles interrupting the rectangle of the top sheet, causing static across his mental field. He turned away from the mess of imperfection, closed his eyes to clear the mechanism, and pulled together the strands of his focus into a coherent whole. “First you need to tell me everything.”



* * *



Max Merriweather arrived at the tram station, a flustered figurine through Evan’s Steiner tactical binoculars. Evan had set up eight blocks to the north on the roof of a Mexican restaurant, gravel roof poking his belly, the scent of fresh tomatillo sauce rising through a vent to his side. Before Max could work himself into a frenzy, Evan called his cell. He watched the figurine hold a phone to his face and glance around nervously.